Once, while grating potatoes to make potato pancakes, I had a Proustian moment. I can't lay claim to much in the way of literary knowledge, but I do know that Proust's 'Remembrance of Things Past' was prompted by his biting into a pastry and feeling a sense of overwhelming pleasure with no recognizable cause. In my case, I was instantly transported back to the grandmother's kitchen as she and my mother grated potatoes in order to make 'poutine râpée', also known as 'poutines'. People will immediately flash to the Quebecker ethnic food known by the same name. However, in spite of all the Franco-culinary posturing, this is really only French Fries with gravy and, oh yeah, can I have some cheese curds on that? One etymological source indicates that 'poutine' really means 'mess'. If you come from my part of the country, the Quebecker poutine is just another entry in the long list of dishes that will cause you to keel over from a myocardial infarction while shoveling a foot of snow out of the driveway shortly after you've retired; sometimes before. Nope, poutines as I know them are a different creature entirely. They seem to be more of an Acadian thing and none of my friends had even heard of them, much less eaten a single one. Because of the work involved, my mother only made poutines for special times: Christmas, say or Easter. My mother would borrow this grater that was about two feet long and she and my grandmother would set to work. Generally, they started off with an enormous paper sack of potatoes, about 25 pounds or so (We used to buy potatoes by the cartload and store them in a wooden bin in the basement. Because we were cheap labour, the kids would be sent down to retrieve a few for the family meal. It was creepy to descend into the dank cellar, feel our way through the dim obstacle course formed by my grandfather's thousands of tools and bits of wood and locate the bin. After a time in storage, the eyes on potatoes began to sprout pale tendrils and it didn't take much imagination to visualize all kinds... Who would be sent to the cellar? Pick the correct answer from the following options: - the men - not enough information - the children - the women
the children
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I'm not good at sticking to the rules, not even the ones I set myself. I'm really terrible with the rules set by others, especially companies. Even as a child, I could never stay inside the lines in colouring books. Some of you might put this down to poor hand-eye coordination, but I maintain that I was a rule-breaker right from the beginning. One of my roles as an engineer with a multiplicity of companies was to set up projects, define the scope of the work, contract the work out and manage the project. I was setting up a robot-based manufacturing cell for the company in the business of making early cellphones. The cell design required some equipment to be designed and built from scratch, so I got a local designer, Fergus, to give me a quote and got him started on the work. Now, any project will run over budget and take longer than planned and the contractor may come back for more money. And so it was with this designer; he wasn't really vocal about it, but he indicated that the work did take a lot more time and expense than he's originally budgeted. My usual reaction to these things is that this is not my problem. Most of the companies I've work for have lost money, so why should I give a rat's ass if some other company comes up a little short? In this case though, I liked Fergus and, as he was really a one-man operation, I decided to cut him some slack. But first, I had to get permission from my boss to drop another few grand into Fergus's jeans. My boss refused. Having someone tell me I can't do something really brings out my dark side; especially around the time of the full moon. Not long before, we had just waved a fond(-ish) farewell to our president as he was going on to greener fields. As a parting gift, the company bought him either a boat or a motor home, I forget which, and equipped it with three of their cell phones. What kind of manufacturing business did author help set up? Pick the correct answer from the following options: - local designer company - a cell phone manufacturing business. - not enough information - kitchens designed from scratch.
a cell phone manufacturing business.
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Cerberus just stared at me. The dog didn't blink, he didn't pant, he didn't move. He just sat in the passenger seat as I drove, relaxed, mouth hanging slightly open, looking at me the way someone examines a menu but can't decide on the chicken or the veal. The desert sky was on fire when the city came into view. Cerberus turned away from me and stuck his head out from the side of the jeep, his giant tongue flapping in the eighty mile an hour wind while I dialed Luna's number. The dog pulled his head back in, then rested his chin on top of the overhead roll-bar, his fur blowing back along his head like the spines of a porcupine. "Hello?" "Hey, Luna." "Dingo! Are you there yet?" "No, not yet. I'm just outside the city." Vegas flashed and blinked under the starless sky. "You get in touch with Mr. Waciejowski?" "Sure did. He's at the Denny's near the Excalibur. He's trying to stay away from the blackjack tables." "Yeah, good for him. He has the box?" I could hear Luna stuffing something disgustingly healthy in her mouth. "Mmm hmm." "He hasn't opened it, has he?" She swallowed. "Nah. I told him it was filled with old photos." Cerberus shifted in the seat and scratched behind his neck with such force that the whole Jeep shook; a rather unsettling motion at 80 miles an hour. "Hey Luna, I've got a question for you." I looked over to see the dog's nostrils flared out in the wind while his lips blew back and revealed his frightening set of teeth. "This, uh, this animal spirit guide you had me try to find. Do they ever show up, you know, in person?" When did Cerberus scratch his neck? Pick the correct answer from the following options: - not enough information - After getting to Vegas. - After Dingo called Luna. - Before Dingo called Luna.

After Dingo called Luna.
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